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It’s been winter for years and a great fat worm has taken up residence in Drusilla’s belly. Swollen from gorging on all the secrets she swallows. In-between meals, it snacks on her belly.
Munch munch munch.
Grandmum’s face is worry-drawn. Never asks what Drusilla saw. Never will. That’s their pact. Drusilla’s supposed to tell her anyway so Grandmum can pretend it’s all a-bother while, really, she always pays heed.
Darla’s caught up pretending other things these days. She has a worm of her own and a thousand bees busily buzzing in her head, driving her to lead the family remnants on an endless chase following a map she won’t share.
Buzz buzz.
Even when their family’s whole again, it isn’t really. A false reprise. She and grandmum both know why, and they both feed that knowing to their worms instead of sharing it out. Should they try hard enough, maybe they can dance a lie into truth.
Two of a pair, smiling, they throw themselves onto the altar. Knives in hand, slitting their own throats in the name of loving sacrifice. Nothing can change what’s coming. Loss looms ahead, slavering steel-sharp teeth framing a gaping maw.
Chomp.
By the time they’re coated in the slick saliva of the aftermath, spitting back up half-digested secrets is pointless. The girls cleave their chewed-up bodies together, seeking silent comfort. The boy hunts for them, pushes them to eat, pours his blood into their mouths until it spills over. He’s unaware of the worms sleeping fat and happy in their bellies. There’s a gleaming statue in his mind, one he spit-polishes daily, and there’s no sense in their tarnishing it.
‘If you won’t eat for yourself’, the plea goes, ‘eat for me’. Darla’s already eating for three, though, and Drusilla? Drusilla’s eating for four.